


Love at First Lift

by ConsultingHound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angelo is so excited, BAMF John, Blow Jobs, Date Night, Enter an ex-army captain in tight shorts, First Date, Gym AU, Gym Trainer John, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, M/M, Masturbation, Molly is an excellent wingwoman, Molly is sarcastic and I am here for it, Molly thinks Sherlock's crush is adorable, Sex in later chapters, Sherlock gets stuck in his own thoughts, Sherlock is not above faking a medical emergency but he would rather not, Sherlock is not objectifying John he's admiring the aesthetic, Sherlock was bored and so took a case, So.Much.Fluff., Tags to be added, group chats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-08 07:58:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14689824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingHound/pseuds/ConsultingHound
Summary: 'He was only here for the case, he lied to himself.  He didn’t enjoy the class, he didn’t enjoy the stupid music and he definitely didn’t enjoy being under the steady, calm instruction of an ex-army captain who looked damn fine in his training gear.No, he was here for a case.  Now all he had to do was act like it. 'Sherlock was bored.  So bored he agreed to take a boring case at a local gym to pass the time.Enter one ex-army captain in tight shorts and beautiful eyes...





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

_He was only here for the case_ , he lied to himself.  He didn’t enjoy the class, he didn’t enjoy the stupid music and he definitely didn’t enjoy being under the steady, calm instruction of an ex-army captain who looked _damn fine_ in his training gear. 

No, he was here for a case.  Now all he had to do was act like it. 

***

It had started three weeks ago. 

Lestrade called when Sherlock’s boredom was on the tipping point between manageable chaos and lethal destruction and so it was to all the residents in 221’s pleasure that a case had presented itself.  Sherlock had bounded out the flat in his usual flurry of action, glad that his mind would once again have something to settle and focus on. 

Without an object his mind spiralled, switching between a twitchy need to be doing something, _anything_ , flickering between different experiments, web searches, tv channels, composing.  Then there were the crashes where nothing was of any interest at all.  His mind slowed and stagnated, until the only thing of comfort was to pluck listlessly at his violin and wait.  Just waiting.  Constantly waiting.  Repeat this rollercoaster cycle ad infinitum. 

However, when Sherlock arrived at Lestrade’s office and skimmed the files he could barely contain his sigh of derision.  It had to be obvious even to Lestrade that this case was nothing of the calibre Sherlock expected. 

“You can’t be serious,” he stated as Lestrade walked into the office, coffee in hand.

Lestrade looked at him in exasperation.  “How many times have I told you about breaking into my office?  And yes, unfortunately for you, I am serious.”

“But you already know what’s killing them.”

“Yep,” Lestrade nodded as he nudged Sherlock out the way of his chair.  “All overdoses on a new type of steroids that’s making the rounds.”

“And you know how they’re all connected,” Sherlock continued, still scowling as he moved to the opposite side of the desk.  Adrenaline had kicked in reflexively when he heard about the case and was built up with no avenue of release so he began to pace. 

Lestrade nodded again.  “All members of Activate Plus, a gym and fitness centre just around the corner.  Fully kitted out including a wide range of studio classes, intense personal training sessions and a brand new swimming pool.  Motivation to help you find a better you.  Join today,” Lestrade concluded, reading off a leaflet in the file, his eyebrow raised.  He couldn’t help laughing as Sherlock glowered at him.  “Not interested I take it?”

“No thank you,” Sherlock replied in mock-politeness.  “So, you know victims, where and how.  Why do you need me?  Surely even this isn’t outside your realm of possibility.”

“Not outside it no, but my staff are awfully busy, as they always are and, as I have it on good authority you’ve spent the last,” Lestrade made a show of checking a post-it note, “ _3_ days drilling holes into your flats walls, I figured you weren’t too busy to give us a hand.”

Sherlock stopped and stared at him.  It was clear someone had told but which one?

“It wasn’t Mycroft,” Lestrade helpfully supplied, leaving only one solution. 

“She _ratted me out_ ,” he said incredulously, his shoulder falling. 

“Couldn’t hack it anymore.  Said you were driving her crazy with all that banging and crashing about,” Lestrade shook his head, imaging only too well what havoc had occurred.  He was suddenly quite thankful that he had the option to only deal with Sherlock in case-mode. 

“It’s my flat!” Sherlock protested. 

“Technically it’s her flat, you’re just renting it out.  Plus she has to live underneath you and all your goings on.  It’s a wonder she’s lasted this long without ringing in for reinforcements.  Just be glad it was me she called and not your brother.”

“At least he might be able to get me an interesting case,” Sherlock muttered, turning his head to the floor but Lestrade’s hearing was sharp. 

“Go to him then. See what he can find, if this is so far beneath you.”

“No,” Sherlock shouted, his head snapping up.  “I’ll take it, though I still don’t see what you want.”

Lestrade smiled at him.  Why the brothers were constantly bickering may be a mystery but Sherlock’s childish insistence the he was _old enough to look after himself_ was amusing to watch. 

“Alright so we’ve got most of the information but, as you can probably guess from the lack of actual arresting going on, we haven’t found the perpetrator yet.  Usually we wouldn’t look into this in depth but with the number of people who all linked and the fatalities we do actually need to intervene.  You read the full report after your breaking and entering yeah?”

Sherlock nodded.  “The dosage was too low to cause an overdose.  It was spiked with a catalyst making muscle-gain quicker but with the unfortunate side-effect of poisoning those using it.  How do you know it wasn’t the company directly?”

“We checked them first, found nothing.  It’s only this gym that these victims have come from so we’re guessing it’s a localised operation, probably from within the gym itself.  We want you to find whoever’s responsible for this.”

“But how?  Wouldn’t it be suspicious- Oh,” Sherlock stopped as he saw what Lestrade was planning.  The DI simply smiled at him, looking far too pleased with himself. 

“If it helps, the Yard will pay your membership fee.”

It was at this point Sherlock made his first mistake.  He took the case.


	2. Chapter 2

“You drove me to it you know.  And that Greg is such a lovely man, you should be nicer to him.”

Sherlock sighed.  He appeared to be doing that a lot today. 

After officially being signed to the case he’d sulked all the way home, supposedly to read through the case file again to check if the police had missed something.  If Mrs Hudson was also there to face up to her betrayal, well that was just coincidental.  He noisily slammed every door available on the way up to the living room but it only earned him a tut and shake of the head as she washed some dishes in the sink.  He huffed and flung himself into his chair, resisting the urge to knock everything off of the table surface and onto the floor.  She’d only leave it for him to deal with again and that not only defeated the purpose but also was a headache to reorganise. 

Instead he scanned over each of the files.  Nothing sprang up as unusual which only sank Sherlock further into his petulant state.  The least it could do was throw up _something_ interesting, some odd detail or a person of note but alas no.  The people, despite their gym fixations, were boringly ordinary; a lawyer, an IT consultant, a student, and an amateur athlete.  Another dramatic sigh went unheard, Mrs Hudson’s selective hearing kicking in as usual when her tenant was being particularly difficult.  He didn’t care anyway.  His perfectly valid concerns (or whinging as Mrs Hudson called it) were met with talk of how he couldn’t expect serial killers to turn up out of thin air and how he should be happy, _happy_ , with the lack of crime as it meant he was doing his job right.  How very dare she. 

He was seriously contemplating texting Lestrade and telling him that he really couldn’t take the case after all because his brains were literally going to drip out of his ears from the dullness of it all, when the phone rang.  He stared at the skull, contemplating answering.  It wouldn’t be anything interesting.  It never was.  He was going to have to live with being bored for eternity because everything was boring and dull and hateful and-

“Sherlock Holmes, if you don’t answer your damn phone I will throw this pan at you.”  He tilted his head slightly to look into the kitchen to find Mrs Hudson was indeed wielding a pan in one hand while the other rested on her hip. 

He dragged his phone out of his left coat pocket, huffing again to ensure Mrs Hudson knew just how much of an ordeal she was asking of him.  It was Molly.  His interest was stirred slightly.  Perhaps there was an interesting body in the morgue that might possibly be worth looking at, if he could be bothered of course. 

“Yes.”

“Oh, hey Sherlock, it’s Molly.”  The muted bustle in the background suggested she was in the cafeteria.  So much for the body. 

“I know.  What do you want?” he snapped. 

“Well, I heard you’d got a new case with Greg, the gym one and-”

“How did _you_ know I had a new case?” he interrupted, scowling.  “Are you part of this conspiracy against me too?” he accused.  He heard Mrs Hudson scoff in the kitchen and glared at her.  This was all her fault anyway. 

Molly sounded resigned.  “Look, we’re all just worried about you.  Stop being a baby.  Anyway, there was a legitimate reason for me knowing about your case, if you must know.  I’m a member of the gym and was just wondering if you wanted someone to go with you who actually knew the place and instructors.”

“That...would actually be quite helpful,” he said, begrudgingly. 

“The fact you sound surprised wounds me you know.  I’ll text you my timetable and you can turn up to a few of the classes, get to know the staff.  I’m warning you now, some of it’s pretty intense.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I’m sure I’ll do fine.”  His occasional runs around London were good for something at least and he still remembered his boxing training from school. 

Molly giggled.  “Okay, but promise not to blame me okay?”

***

Things were decidedly _not fine_. 

His entire body had been turned into a furnace.  Each breath was like fire lancing down his lungs, choking him with each inhale and exhale.  His legs still protested from the burpees earlier.  His arms were burning, each upwards lift of the bar like forcing a locked door to open.  The music tempo was quick, difficult to match with his shoulder blades feeling like rusty steel unwilling to move. 

The most annoying thing was that Molly seemed unaffected. 

The only indication she had to put effort in was the twitch of her muscles and the sweat.  Her face remained oddly calm, pure focus driving her every move.  It was strange to see the usually docile Molly looking so...lethal. 

“And bars down!  Good work team,” the infuriatingly peppy instructor beamed as she dropped her bar and skipped over to the speakers.  Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief as his arms and shoulders were released from their pressure.  He heard Molly’s chuckle next to him but chose to ignore it in favour of following the cool down with more attention than it warranted. 

“You do realise you could have had lighter weights?  No one’s going to judge you, we’re all too busy focussing on our own thing,” Molly said casually as they put their equipment away.  Sherlock glared at her.

“I was just fine thank you.”  He was possibly dying but Molly didn’t need to know that. 

“Of course you were.  Not suggesting you weren’t.  Just mentioning that if that big brain did not automatically translate into muscle strength you could start a little easier rather than straining yourself and getting an injury,” Molly shrugged, grabbing her water bottle from their spot.  Sherlock had been sceptical when Molly said they had to defend their little area like it was their own homes but as the class filled up he could see what she meant.  Some of these people were vicious.  He may have admired their tenacity had they not clearly been trying to invade his _personal space did they not realise he was trying to stretch_. 

Beside a sudden acquisition of gym-etiquette knowledge, Sherlock had just about managed to meet all the instructors on the rota and although he would happily arrest most of them for crimes of being overly enthusiastic and overall idiocy, none of them had actually committed the crime he had been sent after.  Well, he’d arrest them all except Ivan.  He was not afraid to admit he was a little scared of Ivan.

That left only two more to investigate.  He was supposed to be meeting Jack Darbyshire tomorrow which just left-

“Hi, everyone!”

There was a chorus of “Hi John” from a few in the crowd and some others stood up straighter.  Sherlock was midway through a thought of _Jesus why did I let Molly convince me to take two half hour classes,_ when he actually looked up at his final suspect.  John Watson. 

He would deny, until his dying breath, until the last part of his soul was plucked from his body, until the universe collapsed in on itself and the world was finished, that his first thought upon seeing the instructor was a suggestive _Hello there_. 

Denying something does not make it true however.  It would appear his second mistake of taking the case had just strolled through the door. 

Ex-Army, that much was obvious (and wasn’t _that_ a kicker).  Broad, compact body, defined muscles, which his tight grey tank top and shorts displayed very nicely indeed.  Was that a faded RAMC tattoo on his left arm?  There was also the spidery aftermath of a ragged bullet wound in his left shoulder, hidden partially by his vest top straps.  A scruff of blonde hair, kept short which left his handsome face in full view.  A mouth that fell easily into a cheeky grin.  Good grief.  It was like someone had looked down and sent Sherlock’s perfect distraction. 

He wasn’t complaining. 

Then John looked at him and he honest-to-god felt his breath leave his body.  Dark blue ocean eyes had him pinned in place, rooted to the spot next to his mat.  If he had been paying attention to anything around him he would have heard Molly stifle a giggle but he could not think of a single other thing than the eyes he was currently trying not to drown in. 

Of course that was the moment John winked at him and his mind went into full-meltdown.

He was so preoccupied that he didn’t realise that John had even introduced the class until everyone was moving to get a mat set out.  Luckily he and Molly had kept theirs from the first workout, as they had kept their well-fought for places, so he didn’t have to attempt to move.  He was fairly certain he would have embarrassed himself if he had tried. 

The first workout, with the endlessly perky Victoria, was brutally paced but mainly billed as cardio mixed with weights.  This, in contrast, was ultimately slower, based on focussing tightly on muscle groups which ironically made it high-intensity.  The aim was for people to use their own body weight rather than rely on weights so naturally there was a lot of push-ups, sit-ups, and planks.  Glancing around Sherlock was fairly sure he should not be shaking as if a magnitude 6 earthquake had hit his mat but despite his quivering he was not going to give in.  Not while John was watching anyway.  God his muscles hurt. 

John’s voice was calm and measured, a grounding presence.  He wandered around as he was counting down times, gently adjusting people’s postures.  _Captain_ Sherlock’s mind supplied and he nearly face planted the floor from the plank he was supposed to be holding. 

“Careful,” said the soft voice from above him.  “Remember, keep your breathing steady, it’ll help you balance.”  As if he could breathe normally in such a situation.  Ridiculous.  Stupid, lovely John. 

The half hour went quicker than Sherlock wanted…because it meant he couldn’t scope out the gym for longer.  Obviously.  However he had to admit the cool-down where he essentially lied on the floor was nice.  In the top three of minutes from the workout he would say. 

As people rushed out, he hung back, not fancying being trampled underfoot.  This meant the room was fairly empty when _it_ happened.

He was attempting to wrestle his mat onto the top of the pile when a voice he had become very familiar with over the past half hour spoke just behind him.

“Hey, you did good today.”

It took him a moment to realise John was talking to him.  For a while his mind was shockingly blank until he caught Molly staring at him, frantically mouthing the words “Thank him” behind John’s back. 

“Oh, yes umm, thanks. Thank you. Yes.”

So apparently his brain had decided now would be a great time to take a holiday in Paraguay and had left him with whatever mess was currently guiding his reactions.  He had to get it together but that was easier said than done. 

Joh seemed to be supressing a smile. “You’re welcome. I’m John, by the way.  Are you new?  I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Yes you said at the beginning.”  Rude.  Backtrack, backtrack, backtrack!  “But yes, I am new here.  I’m Sherlock,” he said sticking his hand out.  It took him roughly six seconds to realise that a) he did not normally shake hands with people and b) his hands were really gross after an hour-long workout and he did not want his first impression to be of a rude man who couldn’t breathe properly and had sweaty hands.  Unfortunately, this was 4 seconds too late to do anything about as John had already grasped his hand.  He even had the courtesy not to wipe his hand on his top afterwards.

“Well I hope we didn’t scare you off and you’ll be back next week.” John said, grinning up at him.  Hmmm.  John was stood very close.  And that smile looked like it would taste lovely.  Wait, there was a pause.  Shit, what was he supposed to be saying?

“I’ll be sure to bring him back!” Molly piped up, appearing at his shoulder.  “I’m going to have to steal him away though as I have a date tonight and have promised to give this one a lift home first.”  Sherlock was both thankful and curious.  What date?  Had she mentioned anything about a date?

He took the opportunity to stop staring a John like a lovestruck fool and turned to Molly.  “With who?”

“None of your business!” Molly said. 

“They better not be stealing you away from my classes too often,” John teased.  Molly had known about John and had not told him about him?  What was wrong with her?  And she called herself a friend. 

“I don’t think you need to worry about numbers.  Think you have a new convert here.”  Molly nudged him with her elbow and for a moment Sherlock was confused as to why.

Ah, they were waiting for a response.  He locked eyes with John and said the first thing that came to his mind.  “Yes.”

Jesus. _Christ._  

Molly pulled him out of there quite quick after that.  As he was too busy feeling like the worlds biggest idiot he missed John watching him leave.  Molly however didn’t and caught his eye with a raised eyebrow.  John blushed and looked away, busying himself with collecting his music and pretending that he just happened to be looking in that direction. 

Usually Sherlock would spend the trip home trying to deduct things about Molly’s date, but he was honestly too tired to care about anything.  He’d find out eventually, it wouldn’t be difficult. 

“So John...” was Molly’s opener.

“Not the killer.  Obvious.”

“Not what I was getting at but good to know.  What I _was_ getting at is the heart eyes you two were sending each other,” she said glancing over at him.

He scoffed, leaning his head against the window.  “Molly, your own romantic entanglements appear to be clouding your judgement.”

“So you didn’t freak out and swoon like an 19th century heroine?”  Well that was just mean.

“No.”

“Hmmm.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean,” he said, turning to look at her.

“It means _hmmmmm_.  Anyway John likes you.”

“He was being polite.  He’s the sort of person who’s polite.”

“So like most people.”

“Molly you’ve met most people, how many of them were polite?”

“ _True_.  He still likes you though.”

Sherlock sighed.  Clearly there would be no getting through to her. 

His third mistake of taking the case was waiting for him at home.  Well, it was his home in fact.  He now had a reason to hate living in a first floor flat.  Stairs were the devil. 

It was worth it to solve a case he thought as he staggered zig-zag fashion upstairs.  A traitorous part of his mind added ‘ _and to meet John’_.

He was still telling himself this when he couldn’t move out of bed the next day because his core muscles had seized up.

He suffered for his art. 


	3. Chapter 3

He had dismissed John from being a suspect, which meant _technically_ he had solved the case. 

This meant he did not need to go back to anymore classes.

Case or no case, he did not need to spend _any_ amount of time thinking about attractive ex-army doctors in shorts.  He especially did not need to spend any amount of time thinking about attractive ex-army doctors in shorts and _nothing else_. 

However, Sherlock was finding that need did not necessarily translated into _actually stopping_. 

Besides maybe his case work would be improved with a higher level of fitness.

When he’d informed Mrs Hudson of this as he left for a class in the second week, she muttered something about ‘clutching at straws.’  She clearly did not know how imperative core strength was to scaling London architecture.

The worst thing about the whole affair was that Molly definitely Knew and was not going to let him get away with self-denial for much longer. 

For example, she was smirking as he stepped through the studio door and jumped at the sight of her, looking two seconds away from bolting back the way he’d come.  He composed himself quickly and stalked over. 

“You back again then?”

“Obviously,” he sniffed, primly straightening his mat.

“What is this, the sixth time?”  Molly also attended the Wednesday class as well as the Friday class.  Sherlock found this out when he thought he was being sly by going to the other class, only to be confronted by her high ponytail and knowing, beaming smile.  John had also looked happy to see him at the other class, which should not have been important, but which made Sherlock feel lighter for the rest of the day.  This fact was not in any way connected to the fact Sherlock stoically put up with Molly’s teasing and continued to go to both classes.  That was simply because Sherlock was an adult and would not engage in her childishness. 

“It’s a good exercise class and I am working,” he said, attempting to sound detached.  

“Thought you’d solved the case and handed it over?”  Sherlock resolved to never share anything with Molly ever again. 

“Extra data was required.”  This was something of a lie.  In fact it was a complete and utter lie.  The police had already attained a warrant to search Jack’s staff locker and had found what Greg termed ‘an _alarming_ amount of steroids’ stashed in a broken panel behind the back of the locker which the lab confirmed was the drugs they were looking for.  Now it was just bringing the culprit into custody which the police had reassured Sherlock they were fully capable of on their own. 

“Yeah, data like what’s in John’s shorts,” Molly muttered and Sherlock spluttered. 

“ _Excuse me_?”  His high pitch was not helping.

“Nothing,” Molly sang and looked innocent. 

Luckily at that moment John walked through the door and his retort was sidetracked by the fact John smiled at him.  Him specifically.  _Again_. 

“Oh my god.”  He could hear Molly’s rolling her eyes. 

“Shut up,” he huffed. 

Molly did not listen.  “You should just ask him out.”

Sherlock’s explanation that _it was not in fact that simple actually_ was covered by the fact John had started the class.

He tried to concentrate but it was difficult with Molly’s final words ringing in his ears.  “Just ask him out.”  Like it would be that easy.  Just going up and asking John out.  Who did she think she was talking to?  And as if John would even _want_ to.  What would he even say?  “Hi John, what is your opinion on triple homicides and hunting serial killers for fun?  Want to go out some time and talk about that?” 

And anyway what did she even know about dating?  Apart from that date she went on.  He’d never found out who the mystery person was.  Then again did it really matter?

Wait, what if John already had a partner?  Because who in their right mind wouldn’t want to go out with him?  He was gorgeous and lovely and kind and had nice eyes and oh god what had John done to him?

As the old saying goes, time flies when your mind is sending you into a spiraling panic about your attractive fitness instructor and the half hour was over far too quickly.  People began filtering out and if it took Sherlock longer than everyone else to put away his mat then what of it?

“Oh here we go,” Molly said, rolling her eyes as John casually wandered over after most people had left with waves and shouts of “thanks”. 

“Hi guys.  Good workout today,” he said, looking at Sherlock.  To everyone else in the room it was clear that he hadn’t really registered that Molly was there at all.  Sherlock, for all his observational ability, was the one person who had not. 

“Thank you.  Good...instructing.”

(It was at this point Molly wished she could start filming this to send to Greg, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, the entirety of the British population...  Sherlock on the other hand wished to hit his head against the wall until he passed out because then he wouldn’t open his mouth again, as conversation was clearly beyond him.)

John, instead of laughing however, looked inordinately pleased.  “Aw, well, thanks,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.  He did that when he was happy but unclear how to show it.  Don’t ask how Sherlock knew this.  His mastery of human body language had somewhat extended to ridiculous levels in a short amount of time when it came to John Watson.  “So busy weekend coming up?”

Sherlock thought of the experiment he was going to try involving different blood samples and shower curtain fabrics.  What he said was: “Not really, you?”

“Well I still have a lovely group of increasingly stressed out mothers to teach box-fit to at 11am on Saturday.”

“Sounds intense,” Sherlock laughed. 

“Oh it is.  Those women have a lot to be angry about and Jenny Highfield does not hold back on her upper cuts.  I’m surprised she hasn’t taken out my shoulder yet.”  This directed Sherlock’s attention to John’s shoulders.  He hadn’t really considered shoulders before.  They weren’t a thing you tended to notice about people.  John’s shoulders were lovely though.  Very strong.  Jenny Highfield better not hurt them.  His mind then wondered what John’s shoulders would look like with teeth marks in them and he cut his thoughts off very quickly after that, on fear of embarrassing himself, because if he did _that_ he may as well throw himself in the Thames and have done with it. 

Luckily John was oblivious to the lengthy pause (and the decidedly _untoward_ thoughts Sherlock was having) as he was steeling himself for something which would either work spectacularly well or be spectacularly stupid.  He licked his lips (derailing Sherlock even more), took a deep breath, and locked eyes with Sherlock once again. 

“Sherlock I was just wondering-”

It was at this point the moment was completely ruined by a man bursting through the double doors into the studio. 

Everyone jumped and turned.  Stood in the doorway was a young man in black tracksuit bottoms and matching zipped hoodie, spiky brown hair and a wild look in his eyes. 

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?” he said, locking eyes with Sherlock. 

The man in question was almost impressed.  “Jack I assume?”  Of course the police managed to mess up arresting a suspect.  This is why they should have consulted him. 

“You’re the reason the fucking police are after me!”

Sherlock was not known for his filter and did not intend to start now.  “No, I think you’ll find it was the illegal steroids and their unfortunate after effects you were dealing which has caused that.”

A few things happened in quick succession.  Jack lunged at Sherlock, grabbing a pen-knife from his pocket before he sprang.  Both John and Sherlock noticed this.  Sherlock froze for a second before jumping away and bracing for the sting of the cut.  However, this didn’t happen.  Instead, Jack was sent sprawling as the full force of ex-army Captain, current fitness instructor, and the possible love of Sherlock’s life, John Watson slamming into him and restraining him on the floor, knife clattering uselessly to the ground. 

Sherlock was not too proud to admit his knees buckled slightly at the sight but he recovered before anyone noticed. 

Well, Molly did.  But at this moment Molly could have turned into a space-travelling giraffe being followed by a Mariachi band and his gaze wouldn’t have wavered from the sight of John pinning Jack to the ground by straddling his back, holding Jack’s arms in what must have been a painful hold. 

John looked up at him, worry pinching at his eyes.  “Oh my god, Sherlock, are you alright?”

Sherlock wanted to point out that Jack hadn’t even had a chance to touch him.  However, as he was worried his next words would just be “Marry me”, he just about managed to nod his head.  Nodding was good.  It was a useful communicative tool indicating an affirmative response. 

Before Sherlock’s brain could malfunction anymore Lestrade and his team burst through the doors.  When they saw the scene in front of them everyone paused, including the struggling Jack. 

Greg recovered first.  “Err, everyone freeze?  Um, Donovan get the suspect and um.  Right I’m going to have to ask.  Sherlock, are you wearing shorts?”  

“That’s what you want to focus on?” Molly asked incredulously.

“I’ve just realised that I’ve never seen his legs before.”

“Greg, one, that’s really weird.  Two, your manslaughtering drug dealer just tried to attack Sherlock.  Maybe we want to prioritise slightly.” 

Both Donovan and the other sergeants looked surprised at Molly’s comments but Greg sighed.  “Yeah, you’re probably right.  Come on then, everyone to the police station, we’ll need your statements.”

Sherlock was vaguely listening, aware he should probably know what was going on, but it was difficult as John had handed over Jack and was now glancing over at Sherlock, eyes flickering up and down for any sign of injury.  Sherlock was 90% he was blushing and suddenly wished he was wearing his normal suit as armour.  Was this what it was like when he was deducing people?  Why was he suddenly concerned about what his knees looked like in shorts? 

Then John came over and touched his arm.  Sherlock shivered involuntarily which made John frown.  “Are you sure you’re alright?  You seem a bit spacey which might be shock,” his voice soft and concerned.

Sherlock ignored Molly scoffing behind them and her muttered “Yeah, it ain’t shock my friend,” and managed to nod and say “I’m fine, really,” in about as normal a voice as he could manage.  John smiled but before Sherlock could say anything else they were shepherded out of the room and up to waiting unmarked police cars.  He couldn’t be too mad however as John kept a hand on his arm, probably out of concern he would swoon at any moment like an 18th century maiden.  Normally Sherlock would be averse to any suggestion he couldn’t look after himself, but if it meant he could have more contact with John he was not above pretending to faint and having John carry him.  He did not know when he had lost his dignity but apparently it was long gone by this point.

Luckily he did not have to resort to throwing himself on the ground and was sat in the same car as John for the ride to Scotland Yard, mainly because they were walking as if surgically attached, but also because Molly said that if she had to spend one minute more with them she would officially "lose it".  On the journey John insisted on checking up on him, making him follow his fingers with his eyes etc, and Sherlock half-heartedly rolled his eyes and played along. 

“And you’re sure he didn’t catch you?” John asked for the fourth time. 

“Certain.  As I’ve said before you got to him before he could get anywhere close.”

“He lunged pretty far.”

“And yet not far enough.  I’m fine, honestly.  I wouldn’t lie to you.”  Sherlock snapped his mouth shut at that last sentence, realising it had come out more sincere than intended, sounding more like a promise.  John’s eyes softened and his smiled a little, the worry that had been pinching his face disappearing.  This made Sherlock feel slightly smug.  Maybe he was better at this than he realised.  Whatever “this” was. 

When they arrived at Scotland Yard and were delivered to a waiting room, Sherlock overheard the officer who had driven their car saying to Molly that she now knew what she meant with the “lose it” comment.  He felt offended but was uncertain as to why so simply threw himself into a plastic waiting chair.  It did not have the same dramatic effect as when he was in his sharp suits and long coat. 

They had to give statements separately and as Sherlock had been involved in the case, his statement took far longer than the others.  He was surprised then when he came out of the interview room, ready to head back home for a shower and a sneaky cigarette (Mrs Hudson kept on stealing his supplies), to find John waiting by the front desk.  Why was he still here?  Was he angry with him?  He _had_ just put everyone in danger and may have ruined the reputation of John’s place of work.  Not a great start. 

He still had to sign some paperwork however so he strode over to the desk.  When in doubt, be overly confident and hope it intimidates people into not yelling at you. 

John looked up at the approaching footsteps and smiled when he saw him which was a good sign.  Maybe.  More data needed. 

“Hey.  Everything alright?” John asked, as if they had bumped into each other on the street.

“As I assured you earlier I am fine.  Are you okay?”  Sherlock pretended to be deeply engrossed in Form 23XJ937Y.  There was a slight worry that if he made eye contact, those ocean eyes would make him start apologising and grovelling on the floor and he was desperately trying to claw back some of his aloof persona. 

“Yeah, fine,” John said, leaning back on the desk, just to the right of Sherlock.  “So you were undercover huh?”  Sherlock started to panic.  Hadn’t dodged the bullet then.  Would John think he was a liar?  Admittedly he was a _great_ liar but he didn’t want _John_ to know that.  “You know, like a spy?”

Oh.  Not where he thought the conversation was going.  Spies sounded familiar.  In fact, didn’t John say he liked spies last week, liked the drama of them? (Any idea of how they’d got onto that topic escaped Sherlock- weekend plans maybe?  A film marathon?).  But wait did that mean- _Oh_.  _Oh!_

“I think that would be a stretch but I guess, in a way,” he said, smiling at the paperwork while sneaking smiles John’s way.  Because John _liked_ spies.  Cool and aloof persona, check.  Possibility of John liking him- check? 

“You do realise this makes you the coolest person I know right?” John said, smiling back. 

“Doubt it was a difficult competition,” Sherlock shot back and John elbowed him. 

“Hey, I could know cool people. I don’t but I could!” John replied and Sherlock laughed.  However he couldn’t drag out signing things for much longer (didn’t this usually take approximately 19 hours?) and reluctantly handed everything over to the receptionist.  He turned to John as John turned towards him.  There was a pause and Sherlock couldn’t help but hear Molly’s voice yell at him “To say something you idiot, just say something while he still thinks you’re cool and interesting!!”  He wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say but that didn’t stop him from trying to start a sentence.  However John had also tried to speak at the same time.  They both laughed nervously and looked away, John at his shoes and Sherlock at the poster on the wall. 

“You first,” Sherlock said because he needed to hear what John had to say and adjust accordingly. 

“I was just going to say that I was going to ask you something, you know, before the whole criminal-attempting-to-stab-you incident.”  Sherlock nodded.  John scratched the back of his neck again, this time nervously.  There were different types of neck scratches.  Sherlock had them documented in his mind palace.  “I just wanted to ask, and you can say no, like I won’t mind, well I will mind but I promise not to be weird about it, and this probably breaks like six different codes of my contract, but then again you know the whole member of staff being arrested thing is probably a bigger problem, but I just wanted to ask, if you would maybe want to, I don’t know, go out, some time?  With me.  Obviously.  Not at the gym.  Like as a date.”  John said the first section without taking a breath and then ground to a juddery halt.  He had aimed most of this speech at his shoes, the front desk, his shoes again, the wall opposite, and Sherlock’s left ear, before finally quickly locking eyes, looking mildly terrified. 

Sherlock’s mind finally, _finally_ agreed to work with him instead of shutting down and replied “I would love to.”  Like a normal person.  His insides felt impossibly light, almost like he was going to explode.  His heart was hammering and he was blushing and he couldn’t stop smiling even if he tried. 

“Excellent.  Great.  That’s... _great_.”  John was smiling too, with the same hyper “oh my god this is actually happening” edge.  “Are you free tomorrow night?  I know it’s short notice.”  Bless him for assuming Sherlock had plans that did not revolve around the unpredictable chaos of casework and John’s exercise classes. 

“Tomorrow night would be perfect.  I actually know a place that would be good.  The owner actually owes me a favour.”  Taking John to Angelo’s would ensure he would not stop hearing about this for approximately 80 years from the excited Italian man but his restaurant was suitably atmospheric and had a menu he would actually eat from. 

“Okay, so you’re definitely telling me the story behind that.  It sounds wonderful.  Meet at 7?” 

Sherlock agreed and they swapped numbers so Sherlock could text John the address.  John then glanced at his watch and winced.  “I’m really sorry but I’ve got to go otherwise I am never getting home.  See you tomorrow though, right?” as if Sherlock had decided in the last thirty seconds he’d changed his mind. 

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock said smiling.  John turned to go, but stopped, turned back, and hesitantly kissed Sherlock, feather light, on the cheek.

“Tomorrow,” he said, centimeters away from Sherlock’s lips and then disappeared out of the front doors. 

Sherlock partially collapsed against the front desk, waiting an appropriate amount of time before following John out.

He was going on a date. 

He was going on a date with John Watson.

_John Watson._

He had to ring Molly. 

He was suddenly feeling very out of his depth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say thank you for everyone leaving a comment- they've really made my week! :D I wanted to get this chapter out for you all and have had a lot of fun writing it so I hope you enjoyed.  
> Also I swear this was not supposed to be this long- I couldn't seem to make the boys stop chatting. Next time: a date! An actual date! Cue boys hyperventilating, the longest Saturday known to man, Angelo's, and after Angelo's...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Okay, so a few things:  
> 1) Thank you for the great comments- you are all the best :D  
> 2) Sorry about the gap between posting- these last chapters weren't written before I started uploading and then I got carried away and uploaded the first 3 too quickly so there's going to be a bit of a wait (like a few days)  
> 3) You may have noticed the chapter count has gone up- I was writing what I thought was the final chapter and it kept going...and going...and going so I decided to upload the part I had written rather than slamming you with a huge chapter sometime next week and making everyone wait for ages.   
> 4) As ever I hope you enjoy this chapter! There's not a lot of action but it was as if Sherlock wouldn't stop! John will make an appearance again next chapter, don't worry!  
> Okay, admin over, enjoy!

After ringing Molly and blurting out “JohnaskedmeoutwhatdoIdohelp”, and then repeating it so it was actually intelligible, Molly made a noise that can only truly be described as the sound equivalent of “!!!!!!!!”.  After her squeaking stopped they were quiet for a minute, both trying to wrap their heads around this earth-shattering news.  The conversation that followed did not start off as one of their most eloquent. 

“Oh. My God.”

“I know.”

“Just- oh my god.”

“I know.”

“OH MY GOD!” 

“ _I know_.”  Sherlock’s distain for repetition apparently flew out of the window when faced with the prospect of a date with John Watson. 

“I told you!  I told you and you looked at me in that _Shut up Molly I know everything_ way but I was right!  I was so right!”

Sherlock paused, momentarily side-tracked.  “What was _that_?”

“What was what?”

“That growly noise you did?”

“That was you,” Molly said, wanting to get back to more important topics.

“I don’t recall ever sounding like a bear with a sinus infection.”

“Well you do, so there.” 

“Stop being so childish.”

“You started it!  But sure, I’ll stop being childish and instead we’ll discuss how the cute boy you like but wouldn’t talk to asked you out on a date.”  Even Sherlock couldn’t fail to see she might have a point.  He _was_ sat in his pyjamas on a Friday night, curled up on the sofa, trying to talk quietly enough that Mrs Hudson wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop, and talking about a boy to what would probably qualify as his best friend if he was the type of person who had best friends. 

“Alright fine,” he huffed. 

“So tell me everything!  Neither of you had come out when I was finished with my statement and I came straight home.”

Sherlock briefly explained about the police station, and John waiting, and John asking him out, and about the kiss on the cheek, and explicitly did not mention the falling-on-the-desk moment because he wanted the scraps of his dignity intact thank you very much. 

“My god you’re both so cute.  Stupid but cute,” Molly sighed.  Sherlock thought about defending himself but then imagined that this would once again derail the conversation.  He settled on instead asking the question that had been haunting him since John had asked him to dinner. 

“So what do I do?”

“What do you mean?” Molly asked. 

“I mean, what. Do. I. Do?  How do I not mess this up?”  Sherlock thought he had been explicitly clear. 

“Awww you came to me for advice.  A horrible decision but very sweet.”  Molly then went quiet.  Sherlock appreciated that she was taking this question seriously rather than treating him to the “be yourself” nonsense. 

“Honestly?  Be you.  I mean that’s who he asked out after all.”

Or maybe this entire friendship was a sham. 

“Molly.  We have known each other for some time now.  Please be serious about this.”

“I am!”

“Clearly not!  The overriding reception of me is that I’m rude, I’m mean, and I’m a...freak.”  He stumbled over the last word, falling into a murmur.  “Who would even like me?”

“John does,” Molly said, with conviction, clearly seeing Sherlock’s mood spiralling quickly south.  “And I do.  And Mrs Hudson, and Greg, and yes, even your brother.  People can be awful but you, Sherlock Holmes, are not one of them and I think John sees that.  And so what if he doesn’t like you?  He’s just one person out of seven billion.” 

It took everything Sherlock had to not whine “But I want him to.”

Molly continued.  “And if he’s a dick, I’ll beat him up myself.”  That did make Sherlock smile, the image of tiny Molly Hooper storming into class to square up to John who, although not tall, was at least a head taller than Molly, and her yelling at him until the cows came home, set up shop, and retired. 

“Thanks Molly.”

“You’re very welcome.  Now go and get your beauty rest Holmes.  You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Not for the first time, he took her advice. 

***

_Heat.  Hot, heavy heat._

A body rolling over his, sun-kissed skin glimmering in the half-light. 

Hands roaming his body, stroking, caressing, chest, stomach, inner things.  A hint of friction causing him to whimper but ghosting away frustratingly. 

A soft laugh that sounded like sunlight and music. 

Lips on his throat, near his ear, brushing over his mouth. 

A voice whispering his name. 

His eyes fluttered open with a soft gasp.  Sweat beaded on his forehead, hands clutched in the sheets, his erection persistent and heavy across his stomach.  He laid there, feeling his heart pounding in his chest, trying to get his bearings.  It was a dream.  It had just been a dream.  He was _not_ disappointed in this fact. 

Although he was awake and in control of his mind once more, this didn’t seem to make any difference to the arousal coursing through his veins, to the strain of _need_ and _want_.  His cock remained stubbornly hard. 

He sighed and trailed a hand down his chest, kneading it with the palm of his hand.  At the contact he whimpered involuntarily, the sound dragging itself out of his throat.  Part of him wanted to stay in bed, to flip over and rut against the sheets, to continue the fantasy, but the thought of anyone (*cough, nosy landladies bringing tea upstairs cough*) overhearing was too embarrassing. 

He groaned, swung himself up and his legs out of bed in one motion, having to pause as the blood rush made him dizzy.  The walk to the bathroom was not one of his most elegant states but he managed to stumble in and turn on the shower.  As he waited for the water to heat up, he leant his back against the small patch of free wall space, and took himself in hand, panting as the room steamed up and he stroked himself lazily.  Slow and light, only teasingly, but enough to stop the skin crawling feeling of unattended arousal which was humming through his groin. 

The water was warm as he got in, unwilling to wait any longer, and it immediately flattened his hair to his scalp.  He placed his forearm on the wall, letting the water pound on his back and spread his legs as far as he could.  He began stroking in earnest now, in the safe bubble of running water, and allowed himself to slip back into his fantasy, to imagine John here with him, water riveting down his naked body, a playful smile on his lips.  He knew exactly what he was doing and knew exactly what Sherlock wanted.  In the dream it was John’s hand on him, kissing him wildly before slipping down, further and further, until he was on his knees in front of him, the ocean eyes glancing up at him wickedly, leaning in, his mouth over his cock and-

Sherlock came over his hand and the wall with a barely contained shout.

He stood, shaking for a few minutes, trying to keep himself propped up against the wall.  His breath was coming in ragged gasps, as if he’d run all the way from Waterloo Bridge, and his legs were shaky underneath him.  His mind was gloriously blank but as his heart stopped thumping in his chest and he didn’t feel like he was going to collapse in a heap anymore, a strain of guilt ran through him.  He was not exactly sure whether it was a good or bad thing to be imagining your date begin to suck you off before you ever actually _been_ on a date.  Pushing it aside and assigning it to the pile of social conventions he would never understand, he stood up, so he was fully under the shower spray, quickly cleaning himself and making sure to shampoo and condition his hair carefully. 

He stumbled out of the shower in much the same way as he stumbled into it, feeling slightly more exhausted than when he went in.  He wandered back into his room and glanced at the clock.  7:30am.  Only 11 and a half hours to go. 

Already he could tell this day was going to last approximately 94 billion years. 

A new pair of pyjamas thrown on, he slouched into the living room and rolled himself onto the sofa.  Only his mind palace would be of any use today but on the other hand he didn’t want to get so lost in his own head he would either a) have a repeat of this morning or b) miss the date entirely. 

It was something of a surprise to be jolted awake by the familiar sounds of Mrs Hudson clattering around the flat.  His eyes reluctantly opened, and he lied still for a minute, just listening. 

She poked her head around the kitchen door and she smiled at him.  “Finally awake I see.”  He grumbled in response, rolling onto his back to look at the ceiling. 

“Don’t be like that with me young man or you won’t get any tea at all,” she said, hand on a hip with the other brandishing a dish cloth at him. 

“As if you could do that to me Mrs Hudson,” he said, his voice croaky from the impromptu nap.  She raised an eyebrow at him and disappeared back into the kitchen.  The sound of the kettle being clicked on was a reassurance that tea would indeed be soon available. 

His phone was on the table next to him.  8:33 am.  Excellent.  10 and a half hours to go. 

There was also a text from Molly that was 80% emojis of hearts and confetti that was something resembling a good luck message.  Sherlock was sure it was not going to be the only one he received that day.  No word from John however.  Was that weird?  Was he supposed to message?  Or was Sherlock supposed to initiate as John was the one that asked him out?  Or were they not supposed to talk at all before seeing each other?  Or was _that_ weird? 

The sound of a mug hitting a coaster dragged him from his phone. 

“You’re going to be fine you know.  Now don’t do that to your phone you’ll break it.”

It was then Sherlock realised he was gripping his phone so hard his knuckles were going white as his mind had raced to pick out the worst-case scenario. 

“Thank you,” he said automatically (and since when was the automatic?) before his brain registered the start of the sentence.  “Wait, fine with what?”

“Your date,” Mrs Hudson said absent-mindedly, peering at the papers on the desk table, judging if she could safely move them.

“How do _you_ know I have a date?”

“I’m 71 dear I’m not _blind._   Oh, and Molly messaged me that you might be acting up today.” 

Sherlock was uncertain what to take offense to first: the fact he would act so obviously out-of-character or the fact Molly was texting about his personal life. 

“We’re all very excited for you.”

“Yes, well, thank yo- wait.  _We_?”

“Yes dear.  There’s a group chat.”  She was still engrossed in the papers, apparently finding yesterdays newspaper in the pile.

“You know how to group chat?”  Sherlock swung to sit up and glare. 

“Once again 71, not stupid.  Anyway it’s not that difficult.  Honestly I don’t know what you think of me!”

Sherlock sighed.  He did not quite understand how he had ended up being the one yelled at here as, clearly, he was the victim in all of this.  Obviously it was time to go back to basics. 

“There’s a group chat?

“Yes.”

“About me?”

“Well not just about you but you do come up a lot.”

“And who’s we?” 

“Oh only a few of us.  Me, Molly, Greg, Mycroft-”

“Mycroft?!”  The idea of his brother in a _group-chat_ was enough to make his head hurt. 

“Oh yes, he’s normally very quiet though.”

Sherlock laid back down and resumed staring at the ceiling.  His brother.  A group-chat.  _In the same sentence._

Well wrapping his head around that was something to preoccupy his time with.

***

By the time he remembered he was supposed to be quizzing Mrs Hudson on the fact his personal life was apparently gossip worthy, she had already disappeared back downstairs.  He briefly considered following her but decided it wasn’t worth the bother.

He thought about the experiment he wanted to run and got as far as dragging out the materials but found it didn’t have the same hold on him as he was hoping.  However, it was either this or stare at various spots around the flat with growing intensity, so he got on with it anyway. 

He did not check his phone every few minutes. 

He did not find his mind wandering.

He did not spill A+ blood over the kitchen table rather on the shower curtain he was currently testing.  (Most of it could be cleaned up but the stain had to be covered by a microscope and a prayer that Mrs Hudson never noticed it). 

The day crawled by.  It was possible time stopped all together at one point.  For example, once he checked his phone it was 12:33.  Approximately twelve minutes later it was still 12:33.  He threw his phone on the table in frustration and then lunged across it in order to stop his phone flying off the other side. 

But eventually, _eventually_ , it was an acceptable time to get ready.  His mind, grateful at the chance to save itself from stagnating, jumped into action.  However, it may have overshot “enthusiasm” and ended up hurtling towards “terror”.  Not at the beginning.  Another shower to wash off the traces of blood which he’d been informed were not particularly reassuring either in or out of context, a lot of maintenance work on the hair in order to make it curl just-so rather than look like it was only barely following the laws of gravity.  However as one curl steadfastly refused to be flattened he thumped the desk in a panicked frustration which sent sparks of pain shooting up his hand.  The curl would have to stay.  Every decision after became slightly more difficult- It came to a head with the choice of shirt colour. 

The colour choices were spread out on his bed: dark blue, aubergine purple, jet black.  The blue would match John’s eyes which were one of the few things he could focus on without wanting to hyperventilate at the moment, but would it wash him out?  The black would be dramatic but _over_ dramatic?  Purple had always been tight but would that be a good thing?  What was the right choice?  There had to be one, he was just missing it, always too slow, always not quite right, always, always, always-

He did the only thing possible.  He rang Molly. Again. 

“Molly help.”

“Okay,” she said, jumping into her concerned, calm voice.  “What’s the problem?”

Sherlock struggled to put the overwhelming feeling into words, the sensation that his feelings had become sentient and were tightening his throat, rolling in his stomach, making him want to both scream and laugh hysterically.  What he said was: "What if he doesn’t like me?”

“Oh for- Sherlock Holmes.  Listen to me.  You will go on this date.  It will be a little awkward and mostly nice and you will spend most of the time oscillating between thinking he’s real cute and wondering if he think you’re cute which, spoiler alert, he totally does!  You will be fine.  Now say it back to me.” 

In a whisper Sherlock repeated “I’ll be fine.”

“Louder.”

He coughed and said, at normal volume, “I’ll be fine.”

“Excellent.  Now seriously, get off the phone and get going to the restaurant where there’s a cute fitness instructor waiting for you.”

“Yes.  Okay.  Oh, and Molly?”

“What now?”

“Thank you.”

Molly didn’t reply immediately, apparently stunned.  Then with an obvious fond smile in her voice she said “You’re welcome Sherlock.  Now go!” 

He exited the bedroom confidently.  He then turned tail and grabbed the purple shirt. 

Decision made.  Date imminent.  Panic contained….for now. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is, the final chapter! Thanks to everyone who's commented, you're all amazing, and so encouraging :) To everyone reading, I really hope you enjoy this chapter. As a thank you for being patient while it was written, it's nearly double the previous chapters at 5,500 :P  
> Now a word of caution, it's not been edited properly so I'm sorry if the grammar and spelling is all over the shop, but I was too excited to get it out to all of you so I'm not that sorry!

John was stood outside the restaurant, glancing up and down the road, not expecting Sherlock to appear out of the side street opposite.  He had to pause before crossing, hidden in shadows, just to calm himself.  John looked handsome, but Sherlock could have told you that without looking at him; John would look handsome in a bin bag.  Luckily, he’d chosen actual clothes for this date and was wearing a navy button down (good call on the purple, wouldn’t want to be identical) under a well-worn bomber jacket and jeans that sent Sherlock’s thought to the positively _sinful_.  His hands were shoved in his pockets and he was rocking back and forth slightly on his heels, totally confident, totally at ease.  It should have been odd to see John outside of his training gear but somehow it felt as natural as breathing and this is what stopped Sherlock in his tracks.  How could this feel so normal?  And how could he have been so panicked when seeing John was the only thing that made him feel truly steady?  Giddy, yes.  Tongue-tied, slightly.  But panicked, anxious?  Never. 

It was this certainty that made him finally move from his hiding spot.  The dramatic reveal was worth it to see John’s double take and jaw drop, and he preened slightly under the attention, making sure his quick movements made his coat flair out behind him.  His smirk must have given away John’s obvious appreciation as he shook himself and grinned sheepishly in response. 

“Hi,” Sherlock said, trying to stop his smirk from falling into a beaming smile and failing miserably. 

“Hey,” John said, pressing another kiss to Sherlock’s cheek which made him blush madly.  “You look amazing.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock wondered if it was possible for a blush to become permeant?  It seemed every time John spoke to him he couldn’t help the colour spreading across his skin.  “You don’t look bad yourself.”  This was an understatement.  Up close, the colour of his shirt highlighted John’s eyes and Sherlock couldn’t look away if he tried. 

“The best I can hope for next to you,” John said, once again distracted by looking over Sherlock’s body.  Up until he’d taken this case Sherlock hadn’t thought about it much.  It was transport, a way of getting from A to B, but not something to be appreciated on its own.  He wasn’t sure what the etiquette was in this situation, so he just stood there watching John watch him until John shook himself again and nodded towards the doors.  “Shall we?”

John held the door open for him and as soon as he was through the door a cry went up. 

“Sherlock!”

“Hello Angelo,” Sherlock said, cutting off a hug by throwing his hand out for a handshake instead.  Angelo’s grip was crushing because of his excitement and he was bouncing around like a puppy.  It was slightly embarrassing but also bolstering: it was strange but nice for people to be rooting for them so much already.

“Sherlock, where have you been?  You need to come round more often, you bring him yes?” he said, turning to John who looked thoroughly amused.  Well at least one of them was enjoying this. 

“I’ll be sure to,” John said, and introduced himself to Angelo. 

“This man,” Angleo said, dragging Sherlock into a side-hug, “let me tell you, I owe everything to him!  He saved me from a murder charge!”

“By proving you were in fact breaking and entering in another part of town.  You still had to go to prison,” Sherlock corrected, as he did every time. 

“Lawyer?” John asked with a raised eyebrow but his eyes said he didn’t believe it. 

“Consulting Detective.  Only one in the world” Sherlock said, pulling himself away from Angelo to be at his full height.  If there was one thing he was proud of it was his career.  He’d fought hard for it and it was his alone. 

“Yeah, that makes sense,” John said smiling but for why Sherlock couldn’t work out.  When Angelo took their coats and showed them to the window table (“Out of the way, I’ll bring a candle, romantic no?”), John placed his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back.  It felt like electricity was emanating from the spot, sparking up and down his spine and he was reluctant to move away to sit down.  As a compromise he happened to make sure their legs were touching lightly and smiled slightly as John pressed back.  Angelo went to fetch wine and then finally left them to it, promising to bring out Sherlock’s favourite carbonara for them.  It was not the best date food, but it was delicious, and Sherlock had been craving it recently.  There was the slight issue of what to do with his hands.  Clasped together seemed to be working to make sure John didn’t realise he was shaking slightly but under or over the table?  Under seemed weird but on the table made his shoulders feel strange.  John saved him from his own mind once again. 

“So, what does a Consulting Detective do exactly?  Apart from getting into knife fights and wearing stupidly short shorts to distract unassuming instructors in?” John asked with a cheeky grin before taking a sip of wine. 

Sherlock would have argued that John would have to look at his own shorts before commenting on anyone else’s, but he didn’t want to derail the conversation just yet.  He chose to explain his career.  “When the police are out of their depth, which is constantly, then they call me.”

“And you solve it for them?”

“Obviously.”

“How?”  He seemed genuinely interested, not just humouring Sherlock but actually intrigued as to the answer. 

“I deduce things.  Observe what everyone can see but cannot put together.  People are idiots sometimes,” he said, sighing, thinking of the Yard.

John laughed.  “Me as well?”

“Oh definitely.  Don’t be offended though, everyone is.”  It occurred to Sherlock that telling someone not to be offended probably meant you said something very offensive and should apologise.  John was still laughing however. 

“Can you show me?”

“Right now?” Sherlock felt caught between wanting to show off his skills and not wanting to scare John away. 

“Come on.  Do me.”  This was not the way Sherlock had hoped to hear those words, but the challenge proved too tempting.  Well, he was being given permission to look at John intently without it being odd, who could blame him?

“Okay, so, ex-army Captain and doctor, used to play rugby at some point, probably would have pursued it further but the military got in the way.  Shot in the left shoulder, you had a psychosomatic limp at one point, but the exercise fends it off.  Oh, and you have a brother you’re not close to.”

“How could you possibly know all that?” John asked, eyes narrowed and his expression neutral.  Dangerous, so dangerous, but the deductions were already there, in plain sight. 

“You hold yourself as military, even when relaxed and that rugby tackle was a mixture of army training and actual skill, you must have learnt somewhere.  Your manner, the way you instruct says Captain but you’re not old enough for any higher rank and you wouldn’t be away from the action anyway.  Tattoo on your arm is RAMC and you have the bullet wound in your shoulder, so they weren't exactly difficult.  The limp was a shot in the dark but a good one, you sometimes favour your right leg, I don’t even think you’re aware of it, as you otherwise rest on it fine, so it’s as if you’re expecting a pain that isn’t there.  Your phone is on the table and came up with Harry a few moments ago but you didn’t notice.  He started the message with the words ‘bro’ and as you aren’t twelve or American it suggests an actual sibling.  One you’re not close to though as they would know you don’t actually like being called ‘bro’ at all so brother you are not close to, older if I had to guess and I never guess.”  He was actually out of breath when he’d finished.  John’s expression hadn’t changed, and Sherlock swallowed nervously.  Was there a way to back-track out of this?

“That…was incredible,” John said in awe, a smile creeping over his face as he processed Sherlock’s rapid-fire words.

“Really?” Sherlock asked shyly. 

“Yeah, that was amazing.  How do you do that?” John said, leaning forward, “Although you weren’t entirely right.”  His eyes sparkled. 

Sherlock scowled.  “What was it?”

“Me and Harry don’t get on, never have really, and I am the youngest.” Sherlock smiled at the confirmation of his guess.  “But Harry is short for Harriet.”

“Sister!  There’s always something,” he said exasperated, shaking his head.  Obvious.

“Still amazing though.”  Sherlock smiled shyly, looking away.  Not the usual reaction. 

“I really want to kiss you,” John said, and looked as startled as Sherlock felt at the confession.  Clearly, he didn’t mean to say it out loud, but Sherlock wanted to reassure him he didn’t mind.  It was then he noticed they had both leaned in while Sherlock was making his deductions and he was actually within kissing distance.  His heart beat picked up and John was licking his lips in a way that was entirely too distracting and-

An embarrassed cough.  “Carbonara!”

Sherlock was going to kill Angelo.  At least get him framed for murder properly this time.  Both of them sprung apart guiltily, and had either of them looked at the other, they would have noticed matching blushes on their cheeks.  Angelo scurried away, focussing his energy on another couple that had just walked in.  (Later he would text Mrs Hudson when he was hiding in the kitchen who would then spread the good news via group chat). 

John coughed and covered the awkward air with another question. “Why a detective?  Why not just join the police?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “I like puzzles.  I don’t want someone telling me that I have to solve one over another and I like taking cases they can’t, especially international cases or ones where people require discretion.  Jewellery theft in manor houses, blackmail in Ukraine, a locked room murder in Paris.  Also, if I had to fill out that much paperwork I’d jump from the 6th floor.”  Lord save him from paperwork.

“You like the challenge of it,” John said with a fond smile, as if something had clicked into place.  Sherlock was about to ask but John had winced when moving away and aborted an attempt to lean his cheek on his hand. 

“Is your shoulder okay?”  Maybe that was a bit abrupt but luckily John had already proved he didn’t mind the lack of tact. 

“Oh, yeah,” John said, shaking his head.  “It’s always like this after boxfit.  It’ll shake out in a bit.”

“Your angry group,” Sherlock said, and John laughed. 

“Very.  I don’t know what happened this week, but I hope it gets sorted soon otherwise they are going to take me out next week.”

“Why fitness?” Sherlock hadn’t realised before but suddenly he wanted to know everything about this man. 

“Instead of medicine?  Well my shoulder was kind of fucked, for want of a better word, so I couldn’t be a surgeon anymore.  The idea of being a GP made me want to tear my hair out from boredom, but I nearly ended up doing it anyway because it was either find a job or move out of London and I couldn’t do that.  The gym kind of happened by accident.  My doctor suggested some exercise to help with my shoulder and my leg, went to the gym, never looked back.  I had to do some training but after boot-camp it was like a holiday.”  John’s face had closed off when he mentioned surgeon and Sherlock wanted to push, god did he want to push, but he didn’t.  If John didn’t want to mention it, it was a touchy subject and he would find out eventually.  Sherlock was determined to keep John in his life as long as possible and he would know everything. 

“Plus, you like bossing people about.”

“Plus, I like bossing people about,” John agreed laughing, instantly relaxing. 

“And you could never leave London.”  Fact.  London was chaotic and noisy and brutal, but it could also be calm and quiet and home.  John reminded him of the city, why he loved it, and the energy rolling off of him was matched by hum of London. 

“Never,” John nodded.  “Born and bred.  Where would I even go?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “I don’t know.  Move to the countryside, open a farm shop,” he said teasingly. 

“And get so bored I jumped out of that window after you as well,” John finished.  “No, I need excitement I think.  I need adventure.” 

“I need excitement too,” Sherlock said.

“Go on a lot of adventures?”

Sherlock considered this.  “If you count chasing serial killers through dark alleyways then yes.” 

John giggled, and Sherlock couldn’t help himself.  He really couldn’t.  No one had the right to be that adorable when laughing, it just shouldn’t be allowed.  He gave in to impulse and leaned in to kiss him.  Briefly, sweetly, just to capture the laugh, to keep it safe.  Sherlock wasn’t going to lie, John tasted mainly of carbonara pasta at this point and so he did the only thing possible to get more data which was to kiss and lick away the pasta taste until he could taste John underneath.  When his mind caught up with what he was doing, how John might feel uncomfortable by them snogging in front of a bunch of strangers in a restaurant, he went to pull back only to find he was held in place by a hand cupping the back of his head and John was reciprocating, slowly swiping his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth with a bit more finesse than Sherlock had shown.  Sherlock wondered if it was possible to really melt into a puddle, his entire body going slack at the sensation apart from his heart which was clearly attempting to beat all the way out of his chest and into John’s. 

John released him, and he would swear he didn’t whimper, he would _swear_ it, and they locked eyes.  The spark from before, when John had wanted to kiss him was now back in full force, humming between them like a life line.  The press of John’s leg against him was both grounding and electrifying.  He was forcibly stopping himself from touching his lips where they were still tingling from the kiss, forcibly stopping himself from crawling over John, entwining them until every inch was pressed against each other and he could feel John under him with every movement. 

“I think we should get out of here don’t you?” John said, his voice husky.  Right, yes, restaurant.  Priorities.  Get home.  Get _John_ home. 

Sherlock was so focussed on the task of getting John out of the restaurant and onto the nearest flat surface that he didn’t even stop to be annoyed at the knowing wave and wink Angelo gave them as they raced out of the restaurant, although a small part of him thanked the universe that his bill was, as ever, waived by the owner.

There were roughly four streets between Angelo’s and Baker Street.  This was somehow far too long, and they only made it halfway down the first street before Sherlock felt himself being dragged sideways into an alleyway and pushed up against a wall.  John’s hands clutched his hips and a knee pushed his legs apart as he hungrily kissed Sherlock.  Surprised but not to be outdone, Sherlock pushed back, twisting his hand into John’s hair, the other running over his jaw.  John moaned and pulled back panting.

“Come back to mine,” Sherlock whispered, hoping, oh hoping he would say yes.  His voice was ragged.

“Yeah, yes, god yes,” John said, punctuating each with a nip at Sherlock’s bottom lip.  There was a small part of Sherlock’s brain that told him to sod the flat and just keep going in the alleyway because the idea of moving was _unacceptable_.  Equally the idea of not stripping John down was also unacceptable and so he towed the back out onto the street and they made their way slowly back to 221B, hands clasped together for easy manoeuvring of pressing the other against lampposts, closed shop fronts, and the occasional bus shelter.  Before they could get charged with public indecency however, the front of Speedy’s came into view and they tumbled through the flat doors and up the stairs.  Sherlock had a need to push John up against the front door and rut against him, but he was certain that if they started that they’d never get upstairs and would scandalise Mrs Hudson (or even worse, would _not_ scandalise Mrs Hudson and instead be subjected to her talk on her ‘wild years’ which Sherlock had sworn to black out of his memory). 

“Bit nicer than my flat,” John said from behind him.  In his haste to sequester John away in the flat away from prying eyes, he hadn’t realised his focus had left John trailing him.  He didn’t seem to mind though, looking around at what he could see in the shadows created by the streetlights. 

“Well there’s a second bedroom.”  His inner voice of reason had given up chastising him at this point.  Clearly, he was beyond hope and the only cure was to hit his head against a wall and pray he wouldn’t remember being so damn _keen_. 

John was smiling.  “Sweet you think we’d need two.”

If you think we need two.  I hope I haven’t scared you off that easily.”  He stepped forward, unhurried, sure he had Sherlock’s full attention.  He released his hand from Sherlock’s grasp and ran them up his chest, pushing the heavy coat off in one go.  It hit the floor with a thud.  Sherlock shuddered, leaning in to the touch as John’s hands trailed up over his shoulders and stroked up his neck. 

“Two might be excessive,” Sherlock agreed and leant in for another kiss, slower than their others, deeper.  John hummed into his mouth.

“People will talk,” he said against Sherlock’s lips, not willing to move an inch.

“They do little else,” Sherlock said and ended the conversation by kissing him again.  He was not in control for long however.  John’s thoughts had obviously been running in line with Sherlock’s as he found himself spun around and pushed up against the door.  The wooden frame bit into his back and his head thudded against the door.  John looked like he was going to say something along the lines of “you alright?” but Sherlock couldn’t be bothered explaining that the only way he would be alright would be if John didn’t stop kissing him ever for the rest of time, so he dragged John by his coat lapels against him and groaned into a filthy kiss. 

Together they just about managed to push John’s coat off and John chucked it behind him.  Sherlock was clinging onto his shoulders but, just like in his dream that morning, John was _handsy_.  One moment a hand running under his shirt, another stroking up his side.  One seemed permanently lodged in his hair, guiding his head as John wanted and Sherlock surrendered (not that he’d put up any fight in the first place).  But then, both hands were running down his back and to his arse.  However, as well as groping slightly, John kept going to the top of his thighs and then lifted.  Sherlock, on instinct, wrapped his legs around John’s waist so only John and the wall were keeping him elevated.

Sherlock did not want to admit to being a shallow man.  He was not a shallow man.  Intellect was as striking as handsome features.  That being said... _those muscles were really something_.  He needed to see John undressed.  Now. 

John, pleased with his efforts, was groping/holding Sherlock’s arse and sucking rhythmically on his tongue, causing Sherlock to gasp on each pulse.  He’d been semi-hard since the alley but now his throbbing cock was trapped between their bodies and if he shifted- yes, John was too, grunting as Sherlock ground them together. 

“Bed,” he managed to pant out, expecting John to set him on his feet.  Instead, he was lifted away from the wall and he clung on with his arms wrapped around John’s neck. 

“Alright, I don’t actually know where I’m going so you’re going to have to help me here,” John told him. 

“Straight down the hallway, door at the end,” Sherlock said, taking the opportunity to nuzzle into John’s neck, kissing and biting at the bit of collarbone left exposed.  His legs must be longer as their torsos were surprisingly well matched.  That being said, he still felt slightly like he was entirely made of limbs, but John kept him pulled close as he moved with ease down the corridor and into his bedroom.

“You ready?” John asked him, mischief in his eyes, but before Sherlock could ask he was suddenly falling through the air onto his bed.  He was about to protest but John giggled and crawled on top of him, capturing his lips again.  They awkwardly wriggled up the bed which had them both laughing at the ridiculousness of it, until they were actually on the bed properly.  Sherlock rocked up from the bed and they lazily rubbed against each other, John teasingly backing off when Sherlock’s gasps grew ragged. 

“I thought of you,” he blurted out and really brain?  Now?  Although every time he’d thought that previously, John had either been into it or at least gone along with it.  Maybe he should trust his instincts. 

“Thought of me when?” John asked distractedly, as most of his attention was on alternating between kissing and biting his way up and down Sherlock’s neck. 

“I was in the shower this morning and I thought of you,” he said, his mouth unwilling to explain further.  John was a smart man however. 

“Oh.  _Oh_ ,” he said as he caught up with Sherlock’s words and a wicked smile, the exact smile Sherlock had imagined on him, lit up his face. 

He twisted back on top, knees bracketing Sherlock’s hips, rested on his elbows so his face was centimetres away from Sherlock’s and whispered onto his lips “Tell me more.”

Sherlock whimpered, eyes flickering between lips and eyes, unable to choose one.  He leant up to try and capture John’s lips in a kiss but John moved back with a soft laugh.

“Oh no you don’t.  Not until you tell me.”

Fuck.  That _voice_. 

“This morning.  In the shower.”  John had started moving down Sherlock’s chest, unbuttoning his shirt and pressing kisses to the skin that was uncovered. 

“Hmm, and what were we imagining I wonder?” John asked, and Sherlock was about to answer with something suave (probably) when John flicked his tongue over a nipple and Sherlock swore instead. 

“Language,” John chastised and continued his ministrations by _biting_ gently. 

“Fuck, John,” was all Sherlock could say as he writhed under him, head tossing from side to side, unsure whether he wanted to press in or roll away. 

“Tell me more,” John distracted him.  “Tell me what you thought of and I’ll tell you what I thought.”

Now _that_ was interesting.  John’s ploy worked, and Sherlock was dragged back from the edge by his own curiosity. 

“I imagined your hands on me,” he said and grabbed one of John’s hands, forcing him to shift his weight, and dragging it down his chest to his groin.  John’s eyes were locked on his and Sherlock noticed a hitch in his breath as his hand brushed Sherlock’s tented trousers. 

“Clothes off,” John said, with an edge of a captain’s demand to it.  Sherlock sat up slightly and wriggled out of his shirt while John unbuttoned his trousers.  He sighed at the release of pressure and lifted his hips, so John could pull them and his pants down. 

He collapsed on his elbows to watch John undress above him, pulling his button-down up over his head and Sherlock practically salivated at the sight of the defined chest and arms which were revealed.  He batted John’s hands away from his jeans and unbuttoned them himself.  John was smirking above him as he focussed on pulling down denim and briefs. 

“You want to know what I dreamed of?” he asked quietly, and Sherlock nodded, pausing. 

“I imagined you, and that damn luscious mouth of yours, god have I thought of that mouth, and you crawled down and you sucked me down,” and Sherlock’s mouth was actually watering now at the image of it, and he wanted to, fuck he wanted to, so he pulled John’s jeans down and he paused a minute to admire the fact John was _very_ well hung, wrapped a hand around the base and sunk down. 

John gasped and scrabbled to grab hold of the headboard as Sherlock hummed around his cock, tongue flat against the bottom, rocking his head back and forth.  John was speaking, rambling, expletives and praises jumbled together, cutting out in a strangled yell as Sherlock moved to suck on the head, and opening his eyes to lock onto John’s through his eyelashes.  John was panting, chest heaving, and his arms were trembling slightly were he gripped on, but there was more, something to allow him to let go completely.  Sherlock had noticed the little abortive thrusts he was making, and so took the opportunity to run a hand over John’s chest and move John’s right hand to the back of his head.  Sherlock’s hand that had previously been holding the base of John’s cock, providing a little friction grabbed a hip and pulled John closer, encouraging him to move. 

There it was- John whimpered and began to fuck Sherlock’s face as Sherlock relaxed and tried not to gag.  He was probably a mess, hair sticking up from hands run through it, drool out the side of his mouth, cheeks flushed deep red, but John was looking at him like he was a creature from heaven, a precious being, and Sherlock moaned at the feeling there.  That apparently was enough to send John tipping over the edge and he came down Sherlock’s throat with a whine of “Sherlock” ripped from his lips. 

Sherlock swallowed and the taste of John, although not strictly pleasant, had him shivering.  John slumped back onto his knees, trying to avoid crushing Sherlock’s chest as he struggled to get his breathing back in check.  While he waited for John to return to him fully, Sherlock rocked his hips back and forth against John’s arse and soon John was rocking with him.  He sighed at the feeling and leant back against the pillows, shutting his eyes as heat pooled in his stomach.  He then whined as John moved away, rolling so he was pressed up against Sherlock’s side instead. 

“Thought you wanted my hands,” John said, and Sherlock opened his eyes to see John watching his face as his hands coasted down his chest, his stomach, until they hit his cock.  Instead of stroking him however, John’s hands coasted to his inner thighs and over his hips. 

“Tease,” Sherlock accused, his lips pouting.  John just laughed at him softly, and kissed him, licking into his mouth and sucking on his bottom lip. 

“Patience is a virtue,” he whispered, and he laughed again as Sherlock shot back “I’ve never been accused of being virtuous.”

“Oh, you’re bad are you?  I can work with bad.”  In one movement, he was attacking Sherlock’s mouth, dragging in his tongue to suck on, while his hand moved to finally, _finally_ , encircled Sherlock’s aching cock and start stroking in earnest, flicking his wrist at the head. 

Sherlock knew he wasn’t going to last long with the dual sensations scattering coherent thought and spiking his arousal even higher.  His hips shifted and rolled and there was the tightening of his stomach and breath was growing erratic and-

He came moaning into John’s mouth.  He gentled his kisses but continued moving his hand until Sherlock stopped shivering and collapsed into his pillows.  He was vaguely aware of John’s hands caressing his sides, and his weight shifting to swipe at both of them.  A duvet was brought up over him and he grabbed onto John’s wrist, managing to open his eyes and say, with a hoarse voice, “Stay.”  John shushed him with a kiss and a reassurance he wasn’t going anywhere before sending him to sleep by playing with his hair. 

***

Sherlock was confused when he woke up.  He was aware he was hot, mainly because the body under him was like a furnace.  It was also comfortable however and as his limbs were unwilling to cooperate he nuzzled in and let himself doze. 

The body under him smelt lovely, musky and like sex.  Sherlock wanted to roll in it, to smell like it always and he was so tired his mind didn’t even bother telling him that could be considered weird.  Instead, it was strangely on board with this idea.  He dragged his eyes open and blinked against the light filtering into his room.  Forgot to shut the curtains.  Silly.  Too exhausted to move.  Do it later. 

His view was of a chest, broad and toned.  An arm was resting close to Sherlock, lying across the persons stomach.  There was a slice of shoulder, spidery with scarring and a hint of tattoo on the arm.  John.  Sherlock hummed in pleasure, stretching his legs and body a little before settling back down.  He could get used to this and couldn’t imagine moving ever again.  This was obviously when his brain decided to come back online and ruin everything. 

_John_ was here. 

He tensed.  John was here for now because he’d asked him to stay.  John was lovely and therefore had done as requested but would that translate into actually wanting to say.  It was as if the hours spent blissfully unaware had stored up all his worries and the anxiety had now hit him full force.  Because if he could remember, through the haze of want, back to the actual date, he seemed to remember mentioning serial killers, and deducing John and _did he really ask John to move in with him_?!  His mind cheerily supplied him with the information that he was a fucking idiot.  He knew from experience at crime scenes that lust could forgive a multitude of sins but as it cleared so clarity and comprehension came into focus.  Would John still like him?  He must do on some level right?  But what was he looking for exactly?  Sherlock certainly hadn’t expected this, had merely meant to get through the date without making a complete prat of himself so now he was floundering, unsure of the emotional and practical ways around this social convention.  He wished he could text Molly and ask her the etiquette but a) that would involve telling her he’d spent the night with John which would mean her response would either be a shrieky phone call of “I FUCKING TOLD YOU” or enough emojis to fry his phone completely and b) his phone was in his coat pocket which was strewn over the living room floor.  While his mind spiralled around possibilities and scenarios, he didn’t quite realise John was waking up. 

John’s eyes blinked opened and he murmured a bit, stretching out before collapsing back and rolling his head to smile lazily at Sherlock.  At the sight he frowned a little though and rolled over. 

“Hey what’s that look for?” John said sleepily, stroking a thumb across his right cheekbone.  Sherlock hadn’t realised his worry was quite that obvious.  He couldn’t help but push into John’s hand, the movement reassuring and gentle.  John would look after him, he knew that on some level, no matter what this was.  Which speaking of-

“I’m just not sure what this is.  Whether you want to stay or-”  He couldn’t make himself say the word leave.  John shook himself awake properly, sensing this was a serious conversation which a sleep addled brain would not handle well, and sat up a little, so he was hovering over Sherlock. 

“Well,” John said, settling down so there was more pressure on Sherlock’s chest, grounding him.  “I would like to stay here if that’s alright with you?”  Sherlock nodded.  “Good.  Because you are gorgeous,” and here he began punctuating each word with a kiss, “and funny, and brilliant, and clever, and sexy, so fucking sexy.”  This kiss lasted longer, was deeper, John’s tongue taking it’s time exploring his mouth.  When the separated, both their breathing was a little harder.  “And so there’s nowhere I’d rather be more than right here.”  Sherlock didn’t know how to respond, how to articulate the fact he felt the exact same way other than to push up and pull John back towards him, continuing the kiss. 

John pulled back however and that cheeky grin from yesterday was back as Sherlock whined.  He slipped out of bed with the words “Shower before breakfast?” as if they’d just been discussing it, as if it was a foregone conclusion they’d spend the day together.

Sherlock laid there stunned by the sudden conversation shift. 

“Only,” John said, turning as he reached the bathroom door to lean against the door jamb, “I seem to remember you telling me about a dream you had.”  Sherlock could feel himself blushing deep red but John wasn’t finished.  “And I’d quite like to see how it plays out in reality.”  Here he winked and slipped into the bathroom.  Sherlock heard the sound of the shower starting up but was still in bed, stunned speechless and apparently motionless. 

This man was going to kill him.  He had been sent from heaven, a gift from another world, and he was going to be the death of him.  His thoughts were apparently taking too long however. 

“Sherlock you coming?”

He scrambled out of bed and followed John into the bathroom.  _God yes_. 

**Author's Note:**

> Two chapters are written, I'm working on the next two so there shouldn't be too long to wait between uploads (she says, hopefully...)  
> Also suggestions for titles are welcome as I'm uncertain about this one!


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